<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Scars of Erebor (a Bagginshield story) by Daisyflower</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28271769">Scars of Erebor (a Bagginshield story)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daisyflower/pseuds/Daisyflower'>Daisyflower</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Hobbit - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Fluff and Angst, Fíli and Kíli Live, Happy Ending, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, King Thorin, M/M, Poor Bilbo, Scars of Erebor, Sugar floss fluff, The Hobbit AU - Thorin didn't die, Title changed once, Trauma, What was Broken, What was Lost, bagginshield</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 21:35:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,522</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28271769</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daisyflower/pseuds/Daisyflower</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo Baggins, contracted burglar to Thorin Oakenshield King Under the Mountain, tricker of trolls, keeper of keys, dragonsbait, and witness to the fall of clan Durin, has come home, but his mind remains where Thorin fell, his ears resound with Kili and Fili screaming in pain, and his eyes chase the dragon through a different sky.<br/>Will the Shire ever be the same?</p><p>Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, leader of the quest to recover Erebor, slayer of orcs, and keeper of the peace, lives, but the road to recovery is a bumpy one and a rushed one. The mountain needs its king, but the king has one journey yet to complete.<br/>Will his answers be enough?</p><p>Two hearts, far apart.<br/>Two lines, burned into their minds:<br/>"I... I love you..."<br/>"I love you too, just keep breathing..."<br/>Was it a lie of mercy to a dying dwarf?<br/>Was it a final confession?<br/>There is only one way to find out...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Bilbo/Thorin Stories, The Hobbit Fanfics</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. And so it Ends...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/21182165">Battle of the mind and the heart</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/BindiTheSkunk/pseuds/BindiTheSkunk">BindiTheSkunk</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>What can I say?<br/>Nothing like a PTSD recovery fiction to really get those gooey feelings flowing. ^^</p><p>This is inspired by BindiTheSkunk's "Battle of the mind and heart" (c.1-5)<br/>Bindi presents a really cool idea, which I also wish to explore: Wouldn't Bilbo have some serious PTSD after that whole mess? And suffering from PTSD, who better to bring him back to life than Thorin the Stubborn and some fluffy feels?</p><p> </p><p>Bilbo &amp; Thorin both live and must relearn what it means to live, after the War of Five Armies. We begin with Bilbo's return to the Shire...</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>On a cold, winter's eve, between snow drifts twice his height, Bilbo Baggins looked upon his hobbit hole for the first time in a year. Bag End lay dark beneath a heavy layer of white, and the expected sense of homecoming yawned with its absence from Bilbo Baggins' heart. It was cold. Just cold.</p>
<p>
  <em>"I wish to part from you in friendship."</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Snow drizzled across the ground, white on grey stone, as Bilbo Baggins put his hands on his friend's stomach, desperately hoping to keep the last of Thorin's blood safely inside him.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>"You are not going anywhere, Thorin. You're going to live."</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Red slop mocked him from the ground beneath him, precious ruby red flowing in little streams through the snow beside him.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>"I take it back. My words and my deeds at the Gate. You did what only a true friend would do. Forgive me. I was too blind to see it. I am so sorry that I have led you to such peril."</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Blue eyes, darkening. Black hair, filthy with muck. Skin, covered in blood mostly from other creatures. A slight smile, encouraging him to accept these words, but spoken in a tired, breathless voice, broken by liquid coughs, adding another stream of red from Thorin's already pale face.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>"No, no, no..."</em>
</p>
<p>"...no, no, no."</p>
<p>Bilbo found himself crouched between drifts, hands over his head to protect him from that moment. Rocking back and forth, wishing to unsee those sights, block the sound of his voice, Bilbo Baggins howled inside, begging to be free of his best friend's last moment, yet holding on, ever so tightly, to every memory he had of that stubborn, beautiful dwarf. He did not want to drown, but he did not want to let go, either.</p>
<p>Many moments passed, Thorin asking forgiveness, Thorin coughing up blood, Thorin dying in his arms, over and over again, until it muted again and Bilbo could open his eyes and see snow again. The quiet resounded like a screaming thing. The darkness pressed in on him, until all Bilbo could think of was lighting a fire, any fire, to chase it away. Spotting Bag End ahead, he started running forward. Exhausted legs shivered under his weight, protested against his idea, carrying him slowly, staggeringly, closer and closer to home, where there would be a hearth and a generous storage of dry wood. It took Mr. Baggins a moment to rediscover his key, and another few moments of fumbling with stiff fingers in thin mittens to unlock the door.</p>
<p>He was home.</p>
<p>He needed a cup of tea.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>~</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>"You are going to live!"</em>
</p>
<p>The stubborn voice of a young hobbit startled Thorin awake. He was alone. He was in bed. A small bed, with starched, white sheets up to his chin, but still a bed and cleaner than most he'd slept in.</p>
<p>Shifting his head, Thorin grunted with the pain, strings of it shooting through his arms, his legs, and up his neck to tie a knot in the back of his skull.</p>
<p>"...uncle?" he heard a small voice ask, before a familiar, light-haired face stuck up from beside the bed. "Uncle!" Fili delightfully declared, and for a moment Thorin feared his nephew would pounce upon him. Fili seemed to think better of it in the next second, then asked: "How do you feel? Are you... Do you remember what happened? Can... can you move your toes, fingers?"</p>
<p>Before Thorin could respond, wiggling his fingertips as a test, a door opened with a bang and a red-headed ball of mass stumbled into the room.</p>
<p>"Fili, Fili, are you alright?" Bombur called out, clearly frazzled. Thorin noticed a redness to Bombur's eyes. Noticing Thorin staring at him, Bombur's eyes widened even more.</p>
<p>"Thorin," the big dwarf whispered, "you're awake."</p>
<p>"Aye, old friend," Thorin replied, his voice a rusty whisper, "that I am."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>~</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>"Raaaaaaah!!"</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Roars of rage, tinged with fear, echoed between the mountain walls. The thunder of thousands of feet, boots, and paws set a trampling rhytm to the air. Snow drifted in rare flakes through the air. Bilbo could see one dance on his frosted breath.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Fur, metals, hair, and skin moved across the ground beneath, feet shifting in an ocean of bodies, red sprays painting the mountainsides, faces, and the ground. Somebody roared, someone he knew, and Bilbo set off running towards that voice, following it across the stone.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>"Be safe," he asked, "be alive."</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Thorin's body hung in the air, raised on a spear held by the largest goblin Bilbo Baggins had ever seen, yet he did not hesitate. As Thorin raised his sword, hacking towards the wooden pole poking his chest, Bilbo Baggins dove forward, dagger first, straight into the large, green monster's foot. The goblin yelped from the stab, stepping away, letting Thorin fall from his spear, looking for whatever stabbed him. Bilbo had no time for the thing, as he slid forward to grab Thorin.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>The *thud* as Thorin's body hit the stone sounded larger than any other sound Bilbo had ever heard before in his life.</em>
</p>
<p>"Please...</p>
<p>
  <em>Thud.</em>
</p>
<p>"...please, no..."</p>
<p>
  <em>Thud!</em>
</p>
<p>"...please, no, no..."</p>
<p>
  <em>THUD!</em>
</p>
<p>"PLEASE, DON'T!!" Bilbo shot up in bed, for a moment still lost between snowflakes and a body lying still on the ground. As the image of Thorin's fall faded, Bilbo blinked, disoriented.</p>
<p>He was in bed. A familiar bed, though the heavy scent of dust was new.</p>
<p>Looking around, slowly lying back down, fingers kneading his sheets, Bilbo Baggins saw the pale light of dawn peek into the room, pointing out the mess he had made: His travel clothes were piled on the floor, drenched in what had been snow, melted in the night. His backpack had been tossed on the floor by the door, and the top flap lay open, spreading precious gems and silver all over. A pot of tea sat on his bed table, cold, and a tea cup lay sideways on a saucer across his knees, its contents deeply marinated through the blankets.</p>
<p>With a sigh, he got up, out of bed, and started sorting his things...</p>
<p>
  <em>"Blunt the knives, bend the forks<br/>
Smash the bottles and burn the corks<br/>
Chip the glasses and crack the plates<br/>
That's what Bilbo Baggins hates!<br/>
<br/>
Cut the cloth, tread on the fat<br/>
Leave the bones on the bedroom mat<br/>
Pour the milk on the pantry floor<br/>
Splash the wine on every door!<br/>
<br/>
Dump the crocks in a boiling bowl<br/>
Pound them up with a thumping pole<br/>
When you're finished, if they are whole<br/>
Send them down the hall to roll<br/>
<br/>
That's what Bilbo Baggins hates!"</em>
</p>
<p>The dwarves had sung such a terrifying tale, yet, tidying through his rooms that day, Bilbo realised how neat and tidy they had left it. Not a plate was still filthy, nor a knife in the wrong place. He supposed he had the -ur-cousins to thank for that.</p>
<p>The pain clenching his chest put a greyness to the world, while he dug up some rations from his pack, then set about cooking them into a proper meal. The whole world felt faint and numb, as he chopped his vegetables and boiled a stew.</p>
<p>As the first spoonfull of warm food met his throat, he felt the first, salty drop slide down his cheek. Soon, another followed, then, another, and another, until he was sitting there full-on crying, spoonful after spoonful dutifully showeled through his mouth.</p>
<p>
  <em>"Forgive me..."</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>~</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>"You are not going anywhere, Thorin. You are going to live."</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Desperate, saddened, hazel eyes staring into his, digging into him, pulling at him.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>"...Forgive me. I was too blind to see it. I am so sorry that I have led you to such peril."</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>He had been such a gold blinded, dragon fevered, stubborn, old fool, risking all of their lives for a shiny handful of minerals. His current wounds were deservedly his, each and every inch of them. It would only be fair that he die of them, but not until this peaceful, young hobbit was safe. He should never have had to attend to a battle field like this.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>"No, no, I'm glad I went into peril with you, Thorin, each and every one of them. And it's far more than any Baggins deserves."</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>He seemed impossibly honest about it, skin shining gold in the late sunlight. He had left a beautiful home, in peaceful, green land, behind for him. He had ran after them, leaving handkerchiefs and cloak behind, the signed contract in his hand, addendums flying behind him as he ran. His courage -- and wit, aye, wit -- had saved their lives, again and again. They owed him so much more, so much better than this war.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>"Farewell, master burglar. Go back to your box... ...plant your trees. Watch them grow. If more people valued home above gold, this world would be a merrier place..."</em>
</p>
<p>"...but that requires several days, of course. Thorin? Thorin, are you listening?"</p>
<p>Thorin came out of his reverie to find Dwalin staring straight at him, the rest of the table waiting quietly.</p>
<p>"Home," Thorin said, catching himself with a slight cough, "I was thinking about home."</p>
<p>The council members, made up of the elders of the Company and Dain son of Nain, all stared at him across the wide, stone table. Still considered a patient by Oín, Thorin sat in an upholstered chair of many pillows and found it difficult to stay awake, but he straightened his back and stared back, willing them to believe he was present and in control. One by one, the surprise waned from their faces, a glowing trust and confidence taking its place.</p>
<p>"About the mines," he picked up and continued presenting his plan to see Erebor reformed, quietly wondering for how much longer he would be stuck in a seat.</p>
<p>He had things to do, places to be...</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. A New Day</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Thorin relearns how to walk, while Bilbo has a talk with his cousins.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Content alert: Social distress, Trauma "spicy deja vu" flashbacks</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> “Here, now. Lean on my arm, your majesty. There we go.”</p><p>Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain and leader of the new Erebor, hugged onto Oìn’s arm as though terrified the floor would vanish under his feet -- and in a way that was exactly how he felt. Dragging one leg after the other across the pale stone floor, Thorin took comfort in the sensation of his toes curling according to his will. His knees still wobbled, ankles shifting beneath him, and only the strong arms of his Companions kept him upright as he walked forward.</p><p>
  <em> Searing pain pulsed through his body, like a wave of cuts, washing upwards towards his skull. The sound of something cracking resounded in his head, and Thorin knew something was very wrong. Even as Bilbo leaned over him, he dared not try to rise, and as blood gathered behind his lips, he prepared himself for death. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Forgive me…” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Every wrong seemed worse, every right more beautiful. If this was to be his final moment, as his body slowly gave in to numbness and cold, he would make sure to tell him what needed to be said. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I…” </em>
</p><p>“Any word from Master Baggins, yet?” Thorin asked, slowly moving his feet forward, one at a time, across the floor. He felt Oìn carefully guiding him in a slow circle around the room, giving his watery legs a decent exercise.</p><p>“Well, no, your majesty, not yet.” Bofur responded.</p><p>Ori kicked in: “But the Shire is very far away, your majesty. Several months we travelled to get here, from there.”</p><p>“And so many fights we met on the road,” Kili shot in, “so many troubles. Fili, do you remember the trolls? And the stone giants! So huge, I…!”</p><p>Fili interrupted his brother with a pointy elbow to his side, eyes never leaving the taunt form of Thorin Oakenshield, growing tenser with each word.</p><p>Kili turned to follow the stare and went very quiet.</p><p>“Your majesty,” Balin spoke, “Gandalf was with him, and we have word from Mirkwood that they met with Beorn on the way westwards. It has only been a week since we sent for word, and every word returned to us has been good. I have no doubt it is only a matter of time before we hear of a happy hobbit, back in his hobbit hole in the Shire.”</p><p>Thorin felt his shoulders sink slowly, but steadily, downwards. Images of a certain young hobbit, crushed by stone giants or grilled by trolls, slowly left his mind, replaced by Bilbo the way Thorin had first seen him; chubby-cheeked and settled, in his bathrobe.</p><p>“Yes,” Thorin said, “A happy hobbit in the Shire, no doubt.”</p><p> </p><p>~~~~~~</p><p> </p><p>“This is my home and my house and all of you can shove off!”</p><p>Bilbo Baggins of Bag End stood in the entry hall of his smial, arms shooing outwards, loose shirt sleeves waving with each movement. He had barely gotten out of his bath and into a proper pair of trousers when he first heard the sounds of voices, footsteps, and the opening of his entrance door, and one voice in particular had sent him dashing out of his rooms.</p><p>“This house is my inheritance,” Otho Sackville-Baggins yelled back, “and no passing vagrant can tell me otherwise!”</p><p>Lobelia, on his arm, lifted her chin in supportive defiance, glaring at Bilbo from beneath a wide-brimmed hat. It was probably the newest fashion from the Far Downs, made of light-blue fabric with a darker, satin bow. Under other circumstances, Bilbo might have made polite inquiries to keep the conversation going, but these were not those circumstances and Bilbo was in no mood for light conversation.</p><p>“It will be your inheritance, Otho Sackville-Baggins, on the day that I die,” Bilbo declared back, a towel twisting between his hands, “And not a day sooner, and if anyone tries to take over my home before that time, I will have their fingers in a vice!”</p><p>Bilbo watched as every face in the room paled.</p><p>“Now, now, master vagrant,” a neatly dressed gentle-hobbit coaxed, “We are gathered here for an auction of the estate of the late Bilbo Baggins, and…”</p><p>He did look very much like elder-cousin Hugo Boffin, except much younger. Could this be young Jago, stepping into the family business? Bilbo did feel a twinge of regret at not spending more time with the Boffins and put it aside for later contemplation.</p><p>“The late Bilbo Baggins is not late at all, master Boffin, as I believe your father can confirm with a mere glance upon my face, should you call him to speak,” Bilbo said, chin held high, thumbs behind his bootstraps, a towel wound securely around his right fist.</p><p>The younger master Boffin stuttered for a moment, but with a glance at the Sackville-Bagginses, he straightened himself again, adding a fourth nose tip to the already pointy air.</p><p>“Without Bilbo Baggins’ cousin’s recognition, master vagrant, I see no reason to summon my elderly father to such a ridiculous scene,” he declared, proudly, “And, besides, Bilbo Baggins of Bag End never lacked a meal in his day, while you, master vagrant, look like you have lacked a meal every day of your life. Discovering a house with such an opulent larder, you might wish to keep it, but the law is the law, master vagrant, and only the owner of the house may decide who stays, and by the demise of Bilbo Baggins, that decision goes to master Sackville-Baggins, and he asks you to leave.”</p><p>Otho nodded stiffly, Lobelia hiding a smirk by his side, and Bilbo felt a massive headache creeping up on him. Still dehydrated from last night’s water works, with no food in his tummy, Bilbo decided to host. Cutting through every complaint and dissent, Bilbo Baggins promptly put the pot on, seated all three, then left them with freshly brewed tea. Back in his bedroom, Bilbo quickly realised he had indeed lost quite a bit of his waistline and he struggled to find a fitting vest and coat, but eventually settled on a set from his tweens. Once properly dressed, in his tween Sunday best, he folded a handkerchief into his pocket, brushed through his hair, then rejoined the three troublemakers at the table in his front hall.</p><p>When he reappeared, Otho Sackville-Baggins swallowed his tea heavily. Turning to see him, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins choked on her own swallow of tea and the younger master Boffin looked very stiff-faced indeed.</p><p>Taking his seat at the table, Bilbo Baggins poured himself a fourth cup from the tea set, took a sip, and sighed: “Oh, that’s better.” Looking back up, he noticed the two gentle-hobbits staring, Lobelia excusing herself with a wave, looking for a washroom, probaby. Taking another sip of tea, Bilbo looked them over, then spoke: “I see you recognize me better now. Well, I did have to put on some older clothes. A year of travel does reshape ones curves. I am glad I kept my old clothes. ‘Waste not, want not’, my father always said, and I am glad I listened to that particular piece of advice. Now…”</p><p>Otho Sackville-Baggins cut in: “You were dead.” surprising the younger master Boffin.</p><p>Putting a careful hand on Otho’s arm, petting it soothingly, master Boffin looked over at Bilbo and said: “It has been over a year since Bilbo Baggins vanished from this place, with the door wide open and items tossed about. We suspected foul play then, but the Thain suggested one year’s patience for a lack of proof, and though that year is up, we do still remember the state of this smial last spring.” Bilbo felt as though the very earth beneath him vanished and the room seemed to shrink before his eyes. “Though you do look somewhat like my distant cousin, while wearing his old clothes, law requires proof of identity in cases where a person has been declared missing.” Bilbo listened to the gentle-hobbit speak as though through water.</p><p>
  <em> Thud. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Thud! </em>
</p><p>
  <em> THUD! </em>
</p><p>“EXCUSE ME,” Bilbo spoke, and, realising he had spoken very loudly, coughed, then continued, “When you say ‘proof of identity’, what would that be?”</p><p>“Oh,” the younger master Boffin replied, eyebrows high, “Well, I suppose, as in other cases of identity, we would need something with his signature.”</p><p>“Would a contract do?” Bilbo asked, thinking of an old, roll of paper, lying in the bottom of his backpack.</p><p>Boffin’s eyebrows rose even higher, meeting his hairline across a wrinkle. “If you had such a document, that would indeed do. It would do very well.”</p><p>“One moment,” Bilbo said, as he waved for them to stay seated while Bilbo rose from his chair, then walked back towards his bedroom. On his way there, he heard a faint tink of metal on metal…</p><p>
  <em> An ocean of bodies, churning beneath. Battle roars and metal on metal resounding between the stone walls. </em>
</p><p>Refusing to indulge the memory, Bilbo dragged himself forward, though his head no longer seemed quite attached to his head. It was as though he saw himself from a distance, as his body found the backpack, slowly stacking its contents to the side on the floor, then pulling out an aged roll of paper, still solid due to the high quality make. King’s quality…</p><p>
  <em> “I…” the King Under the Mountain, radiant and inspiring, lay broken on the mud, gasping for air, begging him, Bilbo Baggins, gentle-hobbit of Hobbiton, for forgiveness, “...care for you… Bilbo Baggins of the… Shire…” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I… I...! Breathe, just breathe, please, stay with me...! I... can't...!” </em>
</p><p>Shutting his eyes, trembling, Bilbo found himself curved around the paper, rocking back and forth, whimpering: “No, no, no.” Forcing himself to draw a deep breath, Bilbo Baggins slowly rose back up onto his feet. Looking into the nearest mirror, he splashed his face with some water from his basin, then carefully dried off each droplet, carefully straightened his collar, took another deep breath… then walked back out there.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>...sorry, Bilbo.<br/>Sorry, Thorin.</p><p>It has begun...</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. First steps</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Bilbo excuses himself &amp; Thorin stretches his legs</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Content warnings: Spicy deja vu, bad jokes</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Here you go. Signature should be at the very bottom, but be careful," Bilbo added, "the paper's a bit fragile now. It's been a year," he excused, willing his gaze to move away from the brown piece of solidified lumber sludge before another memory could pull him under. Sitting down, lifting his tea, the cup seemed too light. Empty, in fact. That would not do. That would not do at all.</p><p>Rising from his chair, Bilbo took the tea pot and started serving his guests, but it too grew empty in a matter of cups. Leaving his cousins to..., Bilbo took the pot in both hands back to the kitchen. Kettle was filled, tea leaves washed out, fresh leaves added... biscuits. Biscuits would suit. Maybe some scones and jam... but not from the pantry. Anything left in the pantry would be stale.</p><p>Turning around to find the rest of his rations of elf bread, his eyes met those of Lobelia.</p><p>Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, born Sackville, married Baggins, of good family on both sides, stared up at him with wide eyes, one hand in her skirts, the other in a drawer. The one with the silverware, Bilbo vaguely noticed. "What... what are you doing?" He asked, confused.</p><p>A sound of metal tinkling on metal preceded the withdrawal of Lobelia's compromising hand, as she calmly straightened from her kneeling position. Unnecessarily dusting off her once handsome, now slightly worn skirts, she stuttered something out in her usual haughty manner, but Bilbo could not hear her, eyes caught on that drawer, clangs of metal echoing in his ears, stronger with each beat of his rather loud heart.</p><p>Raising his hands, he distantly noticed Lobelia slowly baking away, an increasingly intimidated look on her face, but Bilbo was caught in his pain. Ears covered, he felt once more the beat of his own blood washing down his right hand, sticky. The metal sounds were bad, but so important. They must be stopped, if only he could find the source of them. He couldn't find... the swords... axes... hammers, maybe? No, Thorin had a sword, a large, elven one, and his opponent, the only one to truly harm him, had had... a spear... almost a lance... where was it...</p><p>"...Mister Baggins!"</p><p>A hand landed on his shoulder and Bilbo started turning, Sting at the ready, before he... realised how small it was... like... his own...</p><p>Blinking, Bilbo took in the scene for long, sirruppy seconds.</p><p>Sting pointed at someone's midsection, not yet touching.</p><p>That someone's hand at his shoulder.</p><p>A wooden drawer, ripped from its place, was clasped firmly in his other hand, his knuckles white.</p><p>Pieces of his father's best silverware lay strewn about, more on the floor than in the drawer. How unseemly.</p><p>With a start, Bilbo realised he had been tossing it out himself and let go of the drawer, as fast as though it had been on fire.</p><p>Looking up at his cousin Otho, perhaps the most boring, the most tedious of all his cousins, Bilbo carefully lowered his sword, apologizing -- but he could already see the tense look of judgement on his cousin's face.</p><p>"...we believe... you are... indeed... Master Bilbo Baggins, of... Bag End," Master Boffin slowly stammered out, trying to draw calming breaths, "however... perhaps you still need some... help,... cousin."</p><p>Slowly, carefully sheating Sting once more, Bilbo Baggins took a deep breath through his nose, releasing it in a slow sigh. Realising his brow was sweaty, Bilbo removed his handkerchief to start patting his forehead slightly.</p><p>"That... that won't be necessary," he replied, "I... thank you, cousin -- cousins, for your time and... concern, today, but... I believe a bit of rest would do me much good today... yes. Rest." Sighing quietly, Bilbo shut his eyes for a moment, then realised how incredibly rude he was. Opening his eyes and carefully meeting those of his guests, Bilbo Baggins tried for a small, polite smile, and amended himself: "Of course, you are all welcome back for a proper meal, once... once I've... restocked myself... the pantry. Restocked the pantry. My mistake."</p><p>"Maybe tea?" Master Boffin helpfully suggested, "in... three days, perhaps? On the 2nd day after market?"</p><p>Of course.</p><p>This was Hobbiton, not some Outside trade town. Proper market days allowed for proper planning and timely harvests, unlike that fishing town mess in... Anyways.</p><p>"Yes," Bilbo gasped, accepting the help with some gratitude. "Yes," he answered, calming himself, "three days should be fine. Excellent, in fact... I do apologise about the state of my home today. I did not expect... not expect... uhm, visitors..." Two silver knifes lay cross'd by a fork, by the corner of his furniture. Bilbo tore his eyes back up to his guests' still somewhat worried faces, and smiled, soothingly, trying to project a friendly sparkle through his eyes. "Tea on 2nd day would be excellent, cousins, excellent. I shall have a chance at market, and... perhaps some cream scones would suit... or a pumpkin soup... I admit I've quite lost track of the season, at this point. Travel makes it ever a challenge to ponder the yearly cycle of vegetables, I'm afraid."</p><p>"Fish," Master Boffin aided, "Fish is in season now, and roots, though something bad hit most of the raddishes this year. The onions are excellent, however."</p><p>Bilbo hospitably agreed, talking foods and rains all the way to the door, which was already open. Barely remembering to give them their coats first, he carefully shepherded his cousins, one helpfully talkative, the other suspiciously quiet, out of his smial. After waving a couple extra seconds, just for manners' sake, Bilbo slowly closed the door behind them, turned around, then slumped backwards onto the floor, back against the door.</p><p>Sighing into the empty room, he simply sat there for a moment, waiting for the vertigo to settle...</p><p> </p><p>~~~~~~~~</p><p> </p><p>"...aaand up again," Bifur called, hands holding underarms, as Thorin slowly pulled himself back up onto weak legs. He could feel them trembling beneath him before he even begun on his first step.</p><p>"Excellent work, your majesty," Bofur chimed in from the sidelines, flask raised in a splashing salute.</p><p>"Show them bones who rules who," Nori pretend-growled, raising his own fist in another cheer.</p><p>Lifting one leg had only made the other collapse, so far, so Thorin settled for a careful attempt at a slow shuffle forward...</p><p>"Oh, I've got you," Bifur murred, balancing Thorin by his arms, "easy does it."</p><p>Leaning slightly forward, Thorin did have to lean on Bifur's arms for a moment. Then, his other foot moved slowly forward, scuffing across the rough stone floor, one slow inch after another...</p><p>"There you go," Bifur praised, as Thorin balanced his weight back onto his own two legs, "much--"</p><p>"...majesty is not to be disturbed!"</p><p>"Oh, nonsense! His majesty can--"</p><p>Door thrown open, Dwalin's hand pulling at a shoulder, Thorin watched with curiousity as a dwarfdame in servant's garb pushed into his private rooms, only to stop, staring, one foot still within the doorframe.</p><p>"Your--, your majesty!" She gasped before fainting into Dwalin's unexpecting arms.</p><p>"Oh, for--!" Dwalin cussed, starting on a long string of curses detailing the dwarfdame's unlikely ancestry, likely interests, and improbable habits, with an impressive way of words.</p><p>Thorin felt his brows rise from fascination. Dwalin truly had an imagination to be envied. Thorin did not believe anyone had ever used a carrot in such a way before, but the unlikely image stayed on his mind a while, distracting him from his next step.</p><p>"Hooo," Bifur cautioned, just before Thorin's knees buckled.</p><p>"One step," Nori called, accepting another piece of bread from Bofur.</p><p>Bofur groaned.</p><p>"Your high kingliness," he moaned in Thorin's general direction, "if you could kindly try to take a second step before falling this time, this loyal subject of yours would be greatly gratified."</p><p>Thorin glanced at the pile of bread next to Nori and huffed, not unkindly.</p><p>"If I was a betting man," he told no one in particular, "I still wouldn't bet against Nori."</p><p>"Nor would I," Bifur calmly agreed, steadying Thorin back on his legs.</p><p>"Whyever not?" Nori inquired, curiousity piqued.</p><p>"Because," Bifur replied, "one does not throw meat to a lion, then expect the meat returned."</p><p>"Nor," Thorin huffed, standing nearly straight once more, "does one bet against a thief. Win or lose, your wager will end up in their pocket in the end."</p><p>"Ahahaha," Nori heartily laughed, hearing a joke where Bofur simply looked confused.</p><p>Thorin idly wondered what type of carrot would even--</p><p>"Your majesty!"</p><p>"Hahahaha!"</p><p>"Whoa, there! Come now, slow and steady..."</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Ahahahaha, Dwalin &amp; Nori save me from myself sometimes...</p><p>It strikes me how different their situations are... and I'm suddenly extra happy that Sam had Merry and Pippin with him. (Even after Frodo moved on.)<br/>Thorin has all these companions around him, who all understand what happened, while Bilbo...</p><p>Oh, Bilbo... it still looks ever so dark ahead of you...</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. [Temporary Notice]</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Temporary Author's Notice</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>EDIT: Cleaned</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Original message:</p><p>Hi.<br/>
I almost ruined my eyes, so I shall have to take a break.<br/>
Next chapter is in the works, but needs editing.<br/>
Thank you for your patience. ♡<br/>
~ Daisyflower</p><p>Edit:<br/>
I almost ruined my eyes, but I have found a workaround.<br/>
Posting will take longer than a week per chapter, but this should also give me more time to make a good story. ^^<br/>
Thank you for your support &lt;3<br/>
~ Daisyflower</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This was edited on January 28th 2021 @ 6am, local hours.</p><p>Talk soon, my lovelies.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Second Breaths</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Coping, Bilbo and Thorin face their days, remembering their old journeys.</p><p>Elves, Beorn, and a new journey begins...</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Chapter warnings: Pity talk, trauma, captivity, self harm, thoughts of death, self-deprecation, potential uprising, cloak-and-dagger, refugees, semi-public break-down...</p><p>This is a rough one, as we prepare for the big time-leap...</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The very next day, Thorin found a small note on his desk. His name was written in curlicue on the front of the folded piece of paper and the text within was finely lined. Dori, then.</p><p>'Thorin</p><p>Whispers are spreading, of a king with sticks for legs, with spider legs, or no legs at all. Word has it, the king of the mountain can no longer walk, nor fight, and moves by the help of companions.</p><p>I have taken the liberty of borrowing the services of Ori, Nori, Bofur, and Bombur in tracking it down and giving them a different story to speak of, but it being only your second scandal, and the first one carefully forgotten, we fear the rumour might grow, regardless.</p><p>Take heed,</p><p>                                                               Dori'</p><p> </p><p>~~~~</p><p> </p><p>Allowing his visions to wash over him, Bilbo saw his hands covered with blood once more, a dozen conflicting sentences passed back and forth, the drum of his heart drowning out the words of his former companion, now king. Knowing his body remained on the floor of Bag End, slumped over and shivering, Bilbo slowly slid, allowing his mind to drift...</p><p>
  <em>A warm glow shone in Thorin's eyes, part from the late evening sunlight, part... from something else. Seated on a log outside Beorn's home, puffing their pipes happily, Bilbo and Thorin enjoyed the breeze ruffling their hair, the grass rustling around them, and the last rays of the sunset kissing their cheeks goodnight.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"You know, Thorin," Bilbo mumbled lazily past his pipe, "this is an excellent afternoon."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Thorin hummed in agreement, blowing double lines of smoke through his nose. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The sounds of their more boisterous companions drifted through the open windows behind them. Bombur called out, trying to catch something, followed by a heavy thud as his body hit the floor, chair clattering along with him. Thorin raised an eyebrow at the sound, but as the other dwarves called out their "are you alright"s and "need a hand"s, Bilbo watched the eyebrow sink back down as Thorin released a quiet chuckle.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>For the first time in a long time, Bilbo saw a happy, relaxed Thorin Oakenshield, and it was a potent sight. He felt his breath stopping -- which is not a very good thing to have happen while one smokes a pipe. Coughing his lungs out, eyes watering and probably red from the smoke, Bilbo felt Thorin's hand energetically patting his back.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Are you alright?"</em>
</p><p>"Yes," Bilbo whispered into the empty air. His hands still felt covered in blood, yet he clung to the memory of the golden sun in Thorin's eye and Thorin's hand patting his back while he coughed, wishing he could go back to that one moment and live in it forever.</p><p> </p><p>~~~</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>It was dark. True dark.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Thorin heard the plipp-plopps of water droplets hitting water and remembered the small puddle on the middle of the stone floor. Had it grown deeper? It had to drain somehow, for sure.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Unless the elves truly did intend to kill him, slowly drowning him, drop by drop, in a poorly designed prison.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Once, he would have dismissed the thought before it formed, but Thorin had spent too long in the empty, stone room. He felt every vein of ore around him, could remember every patch of moss, every line of slick slime, and yet... he knew of only one way out and he was reluctant to take it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Thranduil's offer, after imprisonment, could set a very bad precedent for dwarf-elf relations: One where Greenwood elves could capture and extort any dwarf passing through, letting them go in exchange for some gold or some jewels. It would cripple eastern trade.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>No, Thorin did not consider Thranduil's offer a way out.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He considered death, but was reluctant to face it...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Plipp plopp...</em>
</p><p>In a way, his suspicions against the Greenwood elves and their king had saved him back then. Believing his captors had wanted him dead, Thorin had felt too offended to simply obey the unspoken request, and yet... sitting on his throne, looking down upon the elven detachment as they made their greetings and courtesies, Thorin felt damp, as a faint echo of dripping water haunted through the back of his mind.</p><p>
  <em>Plipp plopp...</em>
</p><p>"...and as a sign of respect," the pale-haired elf said, "We offer you a great stag, felled this very morning. On our travels here, it appeared..."</p><p>
  <em>Plipp plopp...</em>
</p><p>"But of course," Balin called out, the very image of majordomo hospitality, "We thank you for such a grand gift," to which Thorin nodded royally, his own smile of hospitality perhaps a little strained.</p><p>
  <em>Plipp plopp.</em>
</p><p>Making his required wave, Thorin watched the grey-cloaked travellers follow a servant down the hallway to the guest quarters. They would be housed in rooms with a view of the mountainside, Thorin knew, and would suffer no lack of hospitality -- except for the predominance of dwarven soaps and linens.</p><p>The thought of soft, elven skin meeting rough, dwarven scrubs almost made him chuckle, but the joy passed as soon as it came.</p><p>"We shall eat well tonight, I suppose," Balin said with a smile, looking at the massive carcass on the throne room floor. Bombur had already arrived and directed his assistants in cutting the deer into more manageable pieces, and Thorin noticed Dori to one side, already looking pained at the bloody mess.</p><p>"Any updates on Dori's investigations?" Thorin asked quietly on his breath.</p><p>Balin carefully looked down upon the handful of papers in his hands, shifting one to the top, slowly turning his head so that none but Thorin and Dwalin could see his lips move.</p><p>"There seems to be some dissent amongst our new arrivals, on the topic of leadership. Dori may have found a direction towards the stronger minds behind the idea, but felt it required a somewhat... different touch. We expect Nori and Bofur to return with more news in another three days or so, though Dori warns this venture might require some time to complete."</p><p>Meaning whoever it was had managed to gain a great deal of support.</p><p>Thorin wished, not for the first time, that the malcontents of his kingdoms would try to speak with him before dragging crowds into their debates. While he could not agree to everything, there were often middle grounds to be found if only they told him to look for it.</p><p>He hoped no lives would be lost this time, but his hope was faint in the face of experience. If these people whipped up a crowd, most other penalties would prove ineffective.</p><p>Searching for a distraction, Thorin grasped onto another topic: "Any news from the west?" Ah, panic: Everyone's companion on the road to disaster.</p><p>Balin considered for a moment, then pulled out another note from his handful. Reading the letter, he said: "Beorn escorted two travellers safely to the mountain pass three months ago. No wargs were heard on the road there and no goblins seemed to be around when they arrived. They parted ways in the early morning on a sunny day and Beorn returned home in peace. He has agreed to escort Kili and his company along the same route, but wishes to wait a few days for the rains to end first. He believes the sun will last for a good week once it returns." Balin looked up, meeting Thorin's gaze. "So far, so good, it seems," he said, smiling carefully.</p><p>"Yes," Thorin replied, faintly, imagining one very small hobbit and one very restless wizard travelling alone between goblins and giants, "Very good." Had Gandalf run off again, leaving the peaceful hobbit alone, or had he stayed true this time? Thorin had very little confidence in the wizard, since their journey "together", and found hope had flown off to someplace just beyond his metaphorical fingertips.</p><p>He wanted the hobbit to be safe.</p><p>He just could not believe it until... well. Back to business.</p><p> </p><p>~~~</p><p> </p><p>It snowed.</p><p>Of course it snowed.</p><p>It was not yet summer and winter did enjoy giving a cold goodbye just when everyone believed it was gone.</p><p>Allowing himself a single sigh of disappointment, Bilbo pulled on his cloak and mittens, then trudged into the drifts beyond his door.</p><p>He needed food, preferably something other than lembas, and that could only be found beyond this snow. Not that he minded lembas, but being back in the Shire brought back memories of a much more varied diet and he found himself wishing for a bit of variation.</p><p>Knowing market day was still a day off, Bilbo Baggins walked without any great rush. Instead, he took his time to think, to ponder who might have a spare wheel of cheese or a spare jar of oil. Perhaps he could even get himself invited to supper, if he picked the right hobbit.</p><p>Pondering and wondering, Bilbo eventually looked up to find himself just in front of a rather nicely painted red door. He seemed to, without properly deciding to, have walked himself over to the door of sweet Bell Goodchild. Fifteen years younger than himself, Bell would be a proper thirty-five now and considered an adult. No longer the young lass he would sometimes be asked to keep an eye on, she had surprised him with the occasional invitation to tea, and they had found they quite enjoyed each other's company over a meal and a cup of herbs. Though the age difference kept him from any romantic notions, he had noticed she turned heads at market when she walked by and he seemed to recall she had had a level of ambition concerning her eventual marriage.</p><p>Suddenly feeling quite peckish for one of Bell Goodchild's savoury pies, and perhaps a little curious about her hunt for love, Bilbo found himself raising his fist to knock on the door before his thought had fully formed.</p><p>Knocking on the painted red, wooden door, Bilbo heard the hollow echo of his thump-thump-thumping from within the smial and wondered idly how the elderly Goodchild's were faring. They had rather withdrawn themselves in their older years, leaving their smial to Bell on her thirty-third birthday, hinting strongly at a desire for grandchildren, before wandering off to towards Michel Delving, saying something about closer living and old friends.</p><p>Knocking again, Bilbo found his mind drifting to his own old friends, wondering idly where he himself would go in his olden years. The obvious answer, to stay close to his new friends, would be Erebor, but there lived only his dwarven friends and the Shire was so very far from Erebor, and the road itself perilous. Bilbo thought of the long trudge through hills, mountains, and woods, and could not imagine his ninety-year-old self surviving such a journey.</p><p>Receiving no response to his knocks, Bilbo took a few steps back and looked up. Seeing no smoke from the chimneys, he accepted the absence of Bell with a twinge of regret, then returned to walking.</p><p>Rivendell had been a nice place, and quite within travelling distance of all his friends. They would have to like him very much to make the journey, however, as most hobbits rarely travel far and most dwarves, at least the ones Bilbo knew, seemed quite reluctant to go visiting the homes of elves. Thinking of Ori's displeasure in the face of kale, Bilbo found himself smiling a small smile where he walked. Perhaps the Baggins-Proudfoots had some greeneries to spare. He did seem to recall a rather green thumb on young Odo Proudfoot...</p><p> </p><p>~~~</p><p> </p><p>"There are whispers in the library," Ori spoke slowly, haltingly, as though half his mind was still in some book -- and it probably was. Balin coughed, discreetly, and Ori blushed. "You majesty," he added, very late, but Thorin found himself smiling at the lad.</p><p>Companions on the road and on the battlefield, around a campfire and sharing river baths, their differences in rank had not mattered for a long time, and Thorin himself found he rather missed the easy friendships of those days. Balin, however, was a stickler for formalities, and Dori seemed very pleased with it. The two of them took every chance to keep the new formalities in place, especially around Thorin King.</p><p>"What do they whisper, Ori Scribe?" Balin asked, standing at an angle in front of Thorin, writer's desk on one hand, quill poised in the other. Thorin had dictated letters when Ori asked entry into his office.</p><p>"They pretend to be secretive about it," Ori said, visibly uncomfortable with his own words, "But they always enter during the busiest hours, usually during the change of scribes, and always ask at least two scribes who are headed out before adressing the ones on the new shift. They ask for books on the House of Durin, on the Laws of Erebor, and on the stories of Dwarrow Heroes of the Past."</p><p>Thorin's heirs, how to replace him under the law, and who to compare him to to win support with his replacement.</p><p>Thorin wished he did not see this so clearly. It stank of paranoia and he wanted to be done with that.</p><p>"Do we know them?" he asked, voice deep.</p><p>Ori swallowed nervously. "I wasn't sure, your majesty, so I asked Nori to follow them. I think I recognized the garb of the Longbeards, but with so many Longbeards dressing the people of Blue Mountain and elsewhere, I cannot be sure it means anything."</p><p>The Longbeards. Originally a name for Durin's folk, Thorin himself used to identify with the term, but ever since the fall of the great kingdoms, it had gained a new meaning, becoming a name for those dwarrows who, travelling without destination, stopped caring for their beards, never trimming nor braiding themselves for polite company. Then, Durin's folk had found their ways to the Iron Hills and the Blue Mountains, where most chose to settle, but not all. As Durin's folk regained trust in the line of Durin, under the rules of cousin Dain and Thorin himself, Longbeards kept wandering, turning to trading, guiding, and sometimes stealing, dreaming of the olden days, before the fall of Khazad-Dum. Thorin had heard many a tale of the days of yore, retold through Fili and Kili and sometimes Dwalin, and they all painted a bright picture of the past, but almost every one of them ended with a mad king. Having seen King Thror go mad, in his youth, Thorin understood the reference, but it was an old story, and increasingly stale.</p><p>With a heavy sigh, Thorin turned to Balin and asked: "How many of the Longbeards have returned to us?"</p><p>Balin looked down, seemingly prepared for the question, and promptly responded: "1 252, your majesty, counting 314 families, 205 dwarrowlings, and 800 crafters. Dismissing dwarves above the age of 235, we currently have approximately 230 dwarrows of uncertain employment considered to have led a nomadic lifestyle before joining us here."</p><p>"And from the Iron Hills?" Thorin asked, unsettled.</p><p>"With the crafters and reinforcements arriving after the Battle of the Five, taking into consideration those who returned to keep the Hills themselves safe once Dain considered the mountain safe, we currently have," Balin said, comparing a few different notes on his desk before continuing, "roughly 250 craftsmen, 350 trained warriors, and approximately 130 additional family under the command of Lord Dain of the Iron Hills." Looking up from his notes, Balin added in a quiet tone: "If you will forgive me saying it, we would not do well in an armed conflict, your majesty."</p><p>Thorin nodded, thinking of the many miles of tunnels which made up his realm. Facing a nameless, faceless enemy through such a crowd would be difficult enough without drawing swords on that crowd. Every dwarrow dead would make another martyr set against him.</p><p>Thorin really wished he could pace, but the last thing he needed was for another servant to see him fall, then run screaming through those halls, confirming him as a cripple.</p><p>The quiet voice of Ori broke through his frustration.</p><p>"Pardon me, your majesty," he said, glancing uncertainly at Balin, who gave the young dwarrow an encouraging smile. Ori seemed to take courage from it, continuing with a stronger voice: "With Kili already heading west with Gloin and Bifur, we could perhaps send them a raven and ask them to send reinforcements with the first wave?"</p><p>Thorin shared a glance with Balin, considering.</p><p>"Detracting the time we spent lost, captive, or otherwise engaged, the journey should take no more than... three months, each way?" Balin mused out loud, "And with Kili already on the road, giving him a tenday in Thorin's Hall to gather and equip the dwarrows for the first wave, they could be here around... Durin's Day?" The irony was not lost on Thorin, thinking of his people arriving exactly one year after his Company found the door into Erebor, perhaps to retake the mountain again, this time from malcontents and daydreamers instead of a dragon.</p><p>"How long," Thorin asked, "to reach Kili?"</p><p>Balin answered: "With Beorn delaying their departure from Beorn's Hall, the raven should make it if it leaves within a day. After that, Kili will be deep into the mountains and the raven hard pressed to keep up, through the cold winds of the high pass."</p><p>A day to find the right words. How he wished Bilbo was there. The hobbit had always had such a way with words, and such cleverness behind them...</p><p> </p><p>~~~</p><p> </p><p>"..and I'll not have such thieving filth in my smial!"</p><p>Bilbo barely stepped back in time to save his nose from the door, as it slammed shut with a thunderous noise.</p><p>Odo, it seemed, had married what could only be a soul sister of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, though even Lobelia would hesitate to say such things out loud. Thinking of Lobelia, Bilbo did recall the Sackville-Bagginses had their smial not far from here. Perhaps Odo's wife and Lobelia shared tea and biscuits in the afternoons. It would certainly explain why the harridan believed him "a burglar and a vagrant".</p><p>Shuffling his feet uncertainly, Bilbo could feel something tugging at his mind, before all energy seemed to drain out of him, like water from a bath after the plug is pulled. "Oh no," he thought, "Not here, not now. No, no, no, no, no..."</p><p>Quickly turning, he nearly lost his balance from light-headedness, but willed himself to be alright enough to walk forward, moving as fast as he dared out Odo Proudfoot's yard. Moving quickly down the road back towards the Green Dragon and the party tree, he vaguely thought to himself: "Oh, no. I think I left the gate open," but as soon as the thought appeared, he let it go, focusing instead on moving his feet forward, straight into the Green Dragon, through the tap room, raising a hand and giving a smile to the keep, almost stumbling forward into the back corner alcove.</p><p>Sitting down, he heard himself breathe loudly. Lifting his elbows onto the dark wood table, he let his head drop into his arms and his mind flow.</p><p>Why? Why now? He only gathered himself last less than three hours ago. Why did he fall apart again so quickly? This never happened when Gandalf was around...</p><p>
  <em>"Come along, burglar!"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Are you really a burglar?"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"What was the last thing you burgled?"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Come now, burglar. Take your soup."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"You look more llike a grocer than a burglar to me." Thorin said, eyes grim, but with a flash of humour somewhere deep down.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Thorin's face, blood streaked across it, partially from that nasty gash on his forehead.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"If more of us valued food and cheer and song..."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Thud.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"...above hoarded gold..."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Thud!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"I forgive you..."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>THUD.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Why do you leave me, burglar?" </em>
</p><p>Bilbo saw Thorin through darkness and knew this was no memory, but something his mind had conjured up to defeat him.</p><p>
  <em>Blue eyes, sharp as ice, cut through him, and Bilbo felt his heart bleed and freeze, painful, yet such a relief all the same. He deserved this pain and it finally came, relentless.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"I forgave you. I undid my declaration. Your exile is ended. Why do you leave?"</em>
</p><p>Bilbo whimpered into his arms, then put a hand on his mouth, reminding himself to be quiet.</p><p>
  <em>"I lay dying, healing, on the edge of life and death, and you held my hand as I whispered. Why did you let go?" Thorin asked, face pale, streaks of blood dripping like tears from his eyes, "I needed you..."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"I was not brave enough," Bilbo thought at him, dreaming himself a face to speak through, willing himself to talk in his mind, "to face your words once you woke."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"I forgave you," Thorin moaned at him, jaws wide, deep shadows within, "I cared for you..."</em>
</p><p>Bilbo silenced another whimper with an effort, fighting to remember where he was.</p><p>
  <em>"You only cared for me once your life was ending!" Bilbo yelled through his dream-face, "You only forgave me once your future ended! You only lifted my exile once you were losing your crown! How could I believe any of that would survive your ressurection, when I asked elves to heal you? You hate elves...!"</em>
</p><p>Big, salty tears slinked down the gentlehobbits cheeks, as he willed the vision to fade.</p><p>Regrets heavy, he slowly wiped his face with a clean handkerchief, patting his face lightly, hoping to calm the blush he was sure he had, before looking up to find the keep.</p><p>Before he could blink, a large tankard of Green Dragon brew settled onto the table in front of him, the keep standing fresh by his table, a sympathetic wrinkle to his eyes.</p><p>"You look like you need this," the keep said, "and perhaps a bowl of stew and some biscuits?"</p><p>Bilbo could do nothing but nod, fighting to keep bigger tears from spurting out. It was a lost war, and he soon drank his ale and ate his stew, slow rivers of tears streaming down both cheeks, and the keep said nothing, nor asked any questions, merely accepted his coin, then left him to his own...</p><p>...it was three ales and three fruit pies later when Bilbo finally got to his feet, then slowly stumbled his way home, a nice gentlehobbit holding his arm all the way to his door, before leaving him with his keys and a smile...</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you to all who commented and supported me this past week ❤<br/>I'm writing my drafts on paper now, to keep my eyes strong, and it seems to help, so here's me continuing this story with one eye closed. ^^<br/>Thank you for your patience ❤</p><p>Wow. We get to hear Thorin's echo now, and some of his new troubles.<br/>Also; I am so sorry, Bilbo. You will have people again, I promise.</p><p>Had to revise this chapter 5 times, before it added up properly, but it should work now? ^^,<br/>Next chapter will be a little time-skip, because I think you get the idea now, and a new perspective enters the scene...</p><p>Hope you enjoyed! Next chapter might be 2 weeks away instead of one, just to keep my health, but I've already started it and like the beginning... ^^</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>It has begun~!</p><p>I really hope I manage to speed things up next chapter. There's lots to go through yet. ^^</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>